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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26593213">Needlework</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/WindSurfBabe/pseuds/WindSurfBabe'>WindSurfBabe</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Teitho Fanfiction Contest</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 09:27:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,589</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26593213</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/WindSurfBabe/pseuds/WindSurfBabe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>They say the land is safe now, and she has her health and her home… But what to do with the clothes, she wonders ?<br/>1st place in the July/August 2020 Teitho Challenge "I'm Still Here".</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Needlework</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer: Théoden and Éomer belong to Tolkien.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>- Needlework -</p><p>Now what will she do with the clothes, she wonders ? There are quite a few of them, lain out before her on the little cot in neat piles. Four tunics and two leggings, one cloak and a fine pair of boots – leather, and soft too. Her fingers caress the embroidery on a collar, a little worn and faded. Simple vine leaves, etched in green over the white cotton. His fourteenth birthday gift.</p><p>Only one year away from fifteen, the coming of age for a man. Her handsome boy was all grown, and she’d shed sweet tears over the years that had flown by so fast. Raising him on her own had not been easy, but she had toiled tirelessly from dusk till dawn to put food in his mouth and bring him up good and true. The embroidery was her work too - long tired hours in the dead of night, hunched in front of a lonely candle while he slept behind his curtain. He had smiled at her when she’d proffered the garment, after supper, and even consented to don the tunic for her. Green had been his favorite color. His golden hair was too long for her taste, and she had told him so with great fondness only to see him cringe.</p><p>« All riders wear their hair so, mama, » he had replied but she had fussed and grumbled in pretense, beaming with pride at the sight of her big, strong son. He had still let her kiss his cheek, and she had given in to her mother's emotions and pulled him closer for an embrace. After all, before long he would be her son no more, instead a man of Rohan and of Théoden king…</p><p>She fingers the garment again. Yes, the needlework is fine indeed, and still decent. She used to go as far as Upbourn to sell her creations to passing merchants and richer folk, and none have ever complained of lack of quality. Could happen that someone will fancy a tunic for a wedding or a feast ? The times were still bleak and the land still recovering, but not a fortnight ago Háma’s son had wed that comely girl, Ylsa. She has golden tresses too, and pretty freckles on her rosy cheeks. There had been a feast in the village, beneath the old oak. By this time she is probably expecting a pretty freckled baby.</p><p>Bánnan too had been a beautiful babe, all smiles and dimples. The birth had been a messy and painful affair. Yet through the exhaustion and the terror of her newfound motherhood she had been lovestruck at his first sight. How he had howled when they pulled him from within her belly, so small and lively ! The midwife had guffawed : « That’s a feisty fighter you have given us, Hilde ! » That was the first moment when her pride at having such a magnificent son had turned sour. The taste of bile and dread rose to her lips at the thought of being someday parted from him, of sending her firstborn off to fight. She had left Edoras as soon as she had recovered, Bánnan swaddled in tightly against her breast.</p><p>She shakes her head, the tunic set aside. The other clothes may need some darning, but she has plenty of time for that now. If her once deft hands do not betray her and her eyesight doesn’t fail, she might make it to the Midsummer market in Snowbourne, in two months’ time.</p><p>The first time she had brought him along to a market her little boy had danced with joy, as only children truly can. It had been a modest affair, only a trader’s gathering in Greenharrow, but at the mere mention of the event Bánnan had squealed in delight and implored her to allow him to come. And when finally she had relented, he had rewarded her with the warmest kisses a mother could receive. For weeks before the date he had shaken with anticipation every time she mentioned the market within his earshot. She recalls how they had counted the « sleepies », the nights that separated them from the big day. Of course Bánnan had been too little to understand beyond two, and had wept bitter tears upon learning that he had many a night left to sleep before going. Every evening would ask : « Mommy, how many sleepies until the market ? »</p><p>The candle flickers and she squints at the state of the leggings. She sees now that one is torn across the knee, and unless she can find some material to cover up the hole no one will want it. The leggings are worn and loved, and grown out of, though they have seen their fair share of adventure in their day. The fabric is good and sturdy - how else do you dress a young boy learning to ride ? And ride he must, for he is a man of Rohan.</p><p>They had begun with the smallish pony of the wandering merchant who had stopped in their village one summer day to sell his wares. Bánnan’s fascination for the shaggy animal had overcome the man’s reluctance, and soon her son was parading on horseback around the village green. From then on however, the occasions to ride had been somewhat scarce. Though sitting in the heart of the Folde, the village was too small to host an éored or even proper stables. The only horses were those of farmers, and those labored all day in the fields.</p><p>Some hasty traveler had abandoned the scrawny grey gelding near the village in a state of exhaustion bordering on death. Once nursed back to health it has proven to be a troublesome and stubborn beast, and thus had started its new life as the first mount of the village youth. Bánnan had fallen off so many times she had begun to fear that he’d not want to ride again. But her son had been a determined spirit - no less to be expected from a future rider of the Mark, he used to say. He always mounted up one time more than he fell, smiling though the scratches and bruises, even when the wretched thing had attempted to trample him into the ground. « I’ll wear him down, » he had assured her. « He’ll have to accept me or die. » That one fall had been the worst : the gelding had thrown him into the fence and she had gasped at the tearing sound, praying that it be cloth and not flesh. Bánnan had risen, bloody and undone, his knee open from legging to bone, and told her to wait before fetching her needles : « I must up again, mama. Else I will not dare to do it later. » Ylsa had been watching too that day, and he made them both proud.</p><p>The candle has gone out now, and she is startled to see how dark it is in the house. She folds the clothes away with care, flexing her fingers. They ache sometimes from long years of work and wear, when she’d mend clothing and exchange her sewing for food and small services. Tomorrow she has work to do, when the daylight has returned.</p><p>Bánnan used to watch her sew, fascinated by the movement of the needle in and out of the fabric, weaving and looping to draw together a garment for one of them. « I think fighting is like sewing, » he once stated, « you twirl and you sting, but my needle will be bigger than yours ! » And he kissed her cheek, proud of her trade and oblivious to the dismay his words has caused.</p><p>When he was young she had often wondered what his own trade would be. Every boy dreamed of becoming one of the Eorlingas, to ride with the young lords Théodred and Éomer against the foes of Rohan, but she wishes he would take an interest in weaving, so they could share their love for creation and color. Or smithing, like the father he never knew. His father had strong arms and a kind, ready smile – the smile she saw whenever Bánnan was happy. He had beamed when he had confided that Ylsa’s let him kiss her behind the barn. But time had passed, and he had outgrown the needlework, the village and Ylsa too.</p><p>The straw mattress of her cot prickles her through the fabric as she lays her head down. She'll have to fix it in the morn. The house is silent, and so is the village outside her window. Many have not yet returned from the war, but she knows she ought to be grateful. The darkness is over, and the land is safe. Many have lost their home in the war but their own little house still stands, its thatched roof untouched by fire. Even their belongings have remained where they had left them.</p><p>It had been a cold March morning, and as per the king’s orders they only grabbed the few possessions they could carry before leaving the village. Bánnan had helped her along the road across the rolling fields that no-one had time to harvest. They walked and walked, the old ones complaining of exhaustion and the young ones bearing their grievances with the thinnest of patience. Ylsa had travelled with her parents, a shawl around her freckled shoulders. She kept casting wishful glances his way, but her son had no interest in fancy that day. He and the other village boys, makeshift swords in hand, had slashed away at the tall grass along the path with gossip of fighting and glory. Their eyes were wistful when the green-gold clad riders had passed them by.</p><p>From where she lies she can see the pair of boots under the table, she had all but forgotten about those. What should she do with them ? Leather as soft as velvet, well-worn but still sturdy. Would someone buy them off her hands, for a brother perhaps or a husband ? Those who returned have oft nothing to come home to, and no merchants have yet returned to their trade around here. She is lucky – her trade is most wanted these days, for many a thing needs mending in the wake of the war. Though as the gloom of the night sets in, she wishes she could have taught him the skills he had wanted so. The skills he had needed, the only needlework that could’ve been of use in times like these.</p><p>It was almost dark when they had gone up the narrow, stony path to the stronghold, and inside the glittering caves beyond the fort. Their respite had not been long. Ylsa had wept when the soldiers had called her father to arms, despite his gout and his weak heart. They had also come to take Bánnan and all of his friends. She had pleaded for his life and grabbed at his clothing, the same one she had so lovingly made, as if she were able to retain him. The men’s faces were sad but they did not meet her gaze, averting their eyes in shame and guilt. Her son had endured a conflict of his own, torn between panic and pride as the fight he had longed for had all of a sudden become too real. Ever brave, Bánnan had embraced her goodbye with words of comfort : « I will be back mama. I will be fighting with Théoden King and his men, and with those who came to aid us. Mama, I will fight alongside elves and dwarves, have you heard ? »</p><p>She tosses and turns now, the sleep does not come and the memories plague her, unbidden. How she had fallen into the arms of Ylsa and her mother, and the long waiting hours within the stone walls, huddled together for warmth and comfort. The booming echo of the battle that reverberated in the chambers, along with the screaming and the clash of steel. She remembers the shouts of victory and the insolent sun that had welcomed their exit, so bright when she had expected not to glimpse any light for the rest of her days.</p><p>She had not seen him when they had walked out at last, had not recognized his form amongst the fair-haired bodies strewn within and below the walls. The ground shone golden around them. Many had fallen that day whom their families would not see again, and who'd remain unburied for lack of time and space.</p><p>She had lingered in uncertainty until finally word reached her in Greenharrow, where the people of the village had rested on their way back. Her son was alive. How she had wept! How she had danced with joy, and watched the horizon for her child to return! He was a true warrior now and she was proud, as he would want her to. But no rider had come that way to take her into his arms and make it home together. Drunk on victory and sure of his indomitable youth, Bánnan had decided to follow the king to Gondor.</p><p>Her son was gone, busy in the war effort that was consuming land and the countries around them. She needed an occupation to take her mind off the hollow feeling he had left her with. She had always loathed indolence: her hands itched to work, but what to do? It was no time too embellish banners, and the few clothes they all had left were beyond mending. Still she had tried, and when that was done she had offered her services elseways. She could sew on silk and linen, and guessed that skin was not much different. She'd stitch the gashes in blue, red and yellow thread, according to the fancy of the wounded. She never used the green thread, keeping it hidden like a treasure.</p><p>And now the injuries are healing, and she is idle once again. She misses the moments with her son, when she’d teach him how to sew and watch his clumsy little hands struggle with needle and thread. She does not voice her disquiet, wondering if someone else is thinking about her son.</p><p>Ylsa seemed content, at least. That Haleth boy, she has heard, is a kind lad who fought alongside her son in the battle of Helm’s Deep. His father had been slain during the fight, and he has accompanied his body to Edoras before coming back to support his mother.</p><p>She feels no bitterness or regret. She did raise her son to become independent and strong-willed, she did teach him to decide for himself and not fear what life may bring. Yet she did not imagine that his choices would take him so far away, or that he would've forgotten their cozy home so soon for glory and blood.</p><p>Of blood the last months have brought aplenty, even if they gained victory in the end. The land is at peace now. Lord Éomer has fought in the great battle before the gates of Mordor and returned to take his uncle’s place on the throne, in the great carved halls of Meduseld. Bánnan has returned too. She heard that he fought well, and valiantly. They buried him under the closest hill, him and the other boys of the village that will never learn a trade or wed the girl they used to kiss. Simbelmynë grows on their tombs, a delicate embroidery in the lush green grass.</p><p>She is lucky to be alive, she knows. She has her health still, and her home and her needles. She will endure.</p><p>But what will she do with the clothes ?</p>
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